Facing It (15 page)

The simple scene, man and children and dog, hurt. This was what life should be, pure and good. She caught a quick flash of Chris’s smile in profile, and the pull started all over again. She lifted her mug for a fortifying swallow, struggling with the lump in her throat.

Friends
. They were nothing more and she shouldn’t go looking at him with her children and thinking of anything else. Even so she couldn’t resist the early-morning sunshine, the flash of exhilaration on her children’s faces, the circle of warmth surrounding Chris. She set her cup aside and struggled for a nonchalant air.

“Mama, I’m going outside for a bit.”

Crisp fall air wrapped around her, tinged with wood smoke and full of memories. Light glittered off the pond, a few sleepy ducks dozing on the bank. At the fall of her footsteps, Chris darted a look up at her. Some indefinable emotion flickered in his eyes before he turned to watch John Robert and the dog once more.

“Looks like y’all are having fun.” She settled on the step behind Camille. Ainsley clambered up one tread to nudge into her side, putting her squarely behind Chris.

“Mama.” Ainsley leaned in to stage whisper at Ruthie’s ear. “The big puppy likes John Robert.”

“I can see that.” Ruthie trailed her fingertips through the silky fall of Camille’s dark hair. She glanced sideways at Chris and caught his gaze on her face. She lowered her lashes. “He’s very well trained.”

“Like I said, he’s a good dog. Usually.” A wry note invaded his voice as the dog, overcome with joy, reared up to lick John Robert’s face. “Hound, down.”

He accompanied the stern command with a downward motion of his index finger. The shepherd complied, dropping to his belly and turning those adoring eyes on Chris. The dog’s brow furrowed, ears flicking forward. Camille’s quiet giggle rose and she looked up at Chris. “He minds.”

“He has to. If he didn’t do what I told him when I told him to, someone could get hurt. He could get hurt.”

John Robert spun, and suspicion tightened his features. “What do you do if he doesn’t?”

Ruthie’s breath caught. God only knew what memories cascaded through John Robert’s mind. Chris’s shoulders tensed, then relaxed. He leaned forward, hands dangling between his knees, his attention focused on her son.

“I correct him.” Chris’s voice held matter-of-fact reassurance. “He might get a time-out and have to stay in a sit or a down for a while. He might have to go in his kennel. But you know what? If I reward him with some playtime when he does what he’s supposed to, I really don’t have to correct him all that often.”

John Robert eyed him a moment, as if weighing the veracity of his words, his genuineness. After a long pause, he nodded, dark bangs falling forward on his brow. He rubbed his thumb over the tennis ball fuzz. “So it’s okay to throw the ball now?”

“Perfectly okay.” Chris pushed to his feet. “But how about we give your sisters a turn?”

“All right.” John Robert gave a sharp bob of assent with his chin. Camille jumped up; Ainsley pressed closer to Ruthie’s side.

Chris grinned down at Camille. “Ready?”

“Yes.” She bounded down the steps. Chris glanced back at Ruthie. Their eyes locked.

“Thank you,” she mouthed at him.
Thank you for showing my son, my
daughters
, that a man can be strong and in control yet gentle at the same time, that being in command doesn’t make him a monster.

Pleasure glinted in his blue gaze, more of what she’d glimpsed there the night before. He held her gaze a second longer before Camille took his hand and tugged him toward the boy and dog capering on the lawn. Ruthie wrapped an arm around Ainsley, hugging her close. This had to be an omen for what was to come, a pure and shining future.

“I wish I had better news for you.” Autry folded her hands together. The polished surface of the long cherry table in the formal dining room reflected back the light glinting off her wedding rings. From the laundry room off the kitchen, Mama’s soft conversation with Tori drifted to them, but did little to still the horrible tension tearing into Ruthie. “There’s no such thing as a no-fault divorce in South Carolina. And mental cruelty is not a legal reason for dissolving a marriage in that state either.”

Ruthie shattered. That was the only way to explain the way she felt—as if she’d splintered into a thousand tiny shards, like someone dropping a sheet of plate glass. God, she’d run, risked their lives, risked her mother’s life, for nothing?

“But I’m looking for a way around that. However, I need you to be aware that this probably won’t be the average thirty-days-and-you’re-done divorce.”

Nodding, Ruthie rubbed tight circles at her temples. Her fingertips felt like ice and did little to dull the piercing ache taking up residence there. She’d believed she’d considered every angle of escaping. Why hadn’t she thought to look up the damn divorce laws?

Because she’d been desperate. When the opportunity to finally get away had presented itself, she’d snatched it.

“One thing I want to do is establish legal residency for you in Georgia as soon as possible. I’ll have some more information on that for you as soon as I can. I’m hoping I can find a loophole that will let you file here, since Georgia does have a no-fault divorce law.”

Ruthie nodded again but didn’t speak, still trying to process everything Autry was saying.

“Listen, I’m going to go. I have a two o’clock meeting but I’ll check back in with you later today. My understanding is that the FBI should have some information for us about what they’re going to do with those ledgers by then. Hopefully, we can find a way to make those work for us as well.”

“Okay.” Ruthie rose and walked her to the door. The movie soundtrack swelled slightly, filtering down the hall. “Thanks, Autry.”

“Anytime.” Autry touched her arm, a warm, friendly gesture. “I’ll call you.”

Closing the door and locking it, Ruthie leaned against the solid oak slab, hands over her eyes. When would this nightmare really be over?

“Ruthie?” Chris’s quiet voice shivered over her and she cringed, fighting a wave of weak tears. She didn’t want him to see her like this. “Are you all right?”

Still concealing her face with trembling hands, she shook her head.

He didn’t speak, but moments later, strong arms closed around her and pulled her close to an equally strong chest. He rocked them from side to side. She wrapped her arms about his waist and pressed her face to his shoulder.

His cheek brushed her temple. “Want to talk about it?”

“It keeps getting worse, more complicated, every day.” She sighed. “All I wanted was to get away from him, to get my children away from him. I’ll never be free of him, not really.”

“Yes, you will.” He pulled back and cradled her face in his palms, thumbs stroking lightly over her cheekbones. “You will.”

A rapid knocking at the door dragged her from his easy hold, a sense of dread rushing through her at the urgent tone of that rapping. A quick glance at Chris’s suddenly tight face told her he felt the danger in that summoning. Without speaking, he put her behind him and peered through the peephole. If anything, his posture tautened.

He glanced at her over his shoulder. “It’s Autry. She doesn’t look happy.”

Ruthie’s anxiety deepened as he opened the door. Autry gave them a terse smile as she swept inside. Ruthie folded her arms and braced herself. “What’s wrong?”

Autry tucked her thick chestnut hair behind her ear. “Tick called my cell as I was pulling out of the drive. Stephen’s taken legal action against you for removing the children from South Carolina.”

Ruthie took a slight step closer to Chris’s sturdy frame. She swallowed, hard. “Legal action?”

“He’s trying to force you back up there.” Autry’s narrowed eyes glittered sharply with a predatory light. “He’s sworn out a warrant to have you arrested for interference with custody and extradited back to Charleston.”

“Oh, God.” Ruthie sagged, grateful for Chris’s supporting hands at her elbows. She struggled to breathe, to listen to Autry over the horrible roaring in her ears.

“He’s also put in for sole custody of the children.”

“No.” Ruthie shook her head. “No. He can’t. You can’t let him do this, Autry.”

“Oh, I have no intention of doing so. I’m heading over to the courthouse square now to talk to Judge Barlow about a few injunctions of our own. I just wanted to let you know what was going on.”

“Thank you.” The words slipped past numb lips and Autry hugged her quickly before breezing out.

Ruthie covered her face. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t. It couldn’t. Stephen couldn’t win, not now. Chris’s arms came around her from behind, a strong, silent source of support, and she leaned into him.

Dear God, what was going to happen now?

At Beecham’s terse words, Jennifer looked up from packing. Beecham’s suitcase waited by the door. “What do you mean?”

“That was Calvert.” He frowned, the fine lines on his brow deepening. “Chason has sworn out a warrant for Ruthie and is filing for custody of the children.”

“Like he wants them.” She tucked her jewelry bag into the carry-on. “Sleazy son of a bitch. He just wants to get back at Ruthie.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe he’ll change his tune when Weston and Brookman pick him up.” They’d scanned and emailed copies of the ledgers to their superior agent that morning. Fierce satisfaction flushed Jennifer’s body. They had enough to put Chason away for a very long time. Ruthie would finally be free of him; he wouldn’t be able to hurt her any longer.

Her own cell chimed and she picked it up, swallowing a groan as she recognized the number on the caller ID. Rolling her eyes at Beecham, she flipped it open and lifted the slim device to her ear.

“Hi, Mom,” she said brightly. Beecham smirked and she considered smacking him alongside the head.

“Jennifer, darling, how are you?” Her mother’s cultured drawl slid over her like thick, heavy molasses—sweet and suffocating. She dropped onto the foot of the bed, sure of what would come next. “It’s been forever since we talked.”

“Only since last week.” Not exactly forever, she didn’t add. No point in antagonizing her mother and providing her with more ammo.

“I’m just spoiled.” Her mother’s laugh was a light trill. “Your sisters and I talk every day.”

“Guess it’s a peril of working for the federal government, Mom. Not being able to call home every day.” More like a blessing, maybe? Immediately, guilt slithered through her. In all actuality, she adored her mother, knew her mother loved her. But, God help her, if she had to carry on one of these minefield conversations every single day, she might just eat her own damn gun.

“Well, how are you?” She could picture her mother, not a silver hair out of place on her elegant coif, settling into the wing chair by the fireplace in the formal living room.

“I’m fine.” The mattress dipped next to her and Beecham, damn him, rested his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. He’d been privy to enough of these phone interrogations and her resulting after-bitching to know how her skin crawled by this point. “You?”

“Terribly busy. Allison is planning a huge birthday party for Madison and I’m helping Lori redecorate her dining room.” At her mother’s pause, Jennifer made a noncommittal sound in her throat, which seemed to satisfy. “Trish is chairing the committee for the Junior League charity ball. We’re hoping you could come home for that, darling. Your father would love to see you. Oh, and Paul Coleman asked about you the other day. I don’t think he has a date for the ball yet—”

“Mother, I can’t make plans that far in advance. You know that.” She planned to kill that other little seed too. “And I have no interest in going out with Paul Coleman.”

“Well, why ever not? Honey, he’s an absolutely delicious catch and it’s not like you have many prospects—”

“Mother, I’m not interested.” She kept her voice firm and level. “Besides, I’m seeing someone.”

Beecham lifted his head, eyebrows raised, his shoulders tensing. Jennifer stuck out her tongue at him. Teach him to laugh at her five minutes of hell.

Her mother paused for a solid three seconds. “Really? Who?”

Holding her gaze, Beecham shook his head. Jennifer ignored him. “Beecham, Mother. I’m seeing Beecham.”

She had no trouble reading Beecham’s silent “shit”.

“Your partner? Oh. You’re seeing him? Romantically?”

Irritation sparked under Jennifer’s skin. “Yes, I am.”

“Oh.” Her mother recovered quickly. “Who are his people?”

“I have no clue.”

“You haven’t met them?”

“No, Mother, I haven’t.” Only his mother, once, for like five minutes, and that didn’t count, really.

“When do you intend to do so?”

“Mom?” Jennifer pinched the bridge of her nose. “Do we have to talk about this now?”

“Of course not, it’s simply that…Jennifer, you know I want the best for you.” A pleading note of affection entered her mother’s voice and Jennifer sighed.

“I know. But we have different definitions of that, I think.” She was suddenly tired, the lack of sleep and the conversation catching up with her. Besides, the tense set of Beecham’s posture left a tight, sick feeling in her stomach. “Mom, I have to go. I need to finish packing.”

“Of course, darling. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“And don’t be such a stranger. Even intrepid FBI agents should call their mothers.”

“Yes, Mom.” The connection broken, she flopped back on the bed. Why did those maternal talks always leave her exhausted and guilt-ridden?

“You told your mother.” Disbelief hovered in Beecham’s voice. He hadn’t moved, still sitting on the end of the bed. “You told your mother about us.”

At least he could admit there was an “us” now. Jennifer closed her eyes, not sure she was ready for a Harrell Beecham go-round so soon after a Letitia Settles go-round. She folded her hands atop her stomach, the muscles there flicking and jumping.

“Yes, I did. She’s trying to fix me up again. Do you really think I’m not going to tell her, if for no reason other than to get her off my back about my lack of romantic prospects?”

“I just…” His voice trailed away and the bed shifted, fabric rustling. He was spinning around to look at her, she figured. He sounded a little lost and sympathy spurted through her. “I didn’t expect you to tell her, I guess.”

She levered up on her elbows and shook back her hair. “I agreed not to tell our colleagues, Beech. I never said anything about not telling my mother.”

He rubbed a hand over his nape. “I know.”

She frowned as a new thought occurred. “You are going to tell your mother about us, right?”

He straightened, stiffening. He opened his mouth, looked at her, snapped it shut.

She sat bolt upright, hands planted to the mattress. “Harrell.”

“I don’t talk to my mother about my personal life,” he mumbled.

“What?”

A long exhale carried his aggravation with it. “My mother and I don’t discuss my personal life.”

“Really.” The concept boggled the mind. How on earth had he managed to work that? If she tried not talking about her personal life, her mother would resort to…well, the possibilities were endless and horrifying.

“Yes, really.”

“Wow.” Even in passing, Julia Gruen had seemed like a normal, everyday loving mother, the kind Jennifer equated with her own—the woman who pried details out of her children like a Chinese torture artist. “So you’re keeping me a secret from your mother?”

“I wish you wouldn’t put it that way.” He scowled. “You make it sound sordid.”

“You’ll tell her at some point?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” He stood, almost leaping to his feet, and strode to pick up his bag. “I’m going to put this in the car. Are you almost ready?”

Surely he didn’t think he was getting off that easily. She fixed the back of his head with a look he should be able to feel and rolled to her feet to finish packing. “You really don’t intend to tell her, do you?”

“Jen. Can we drop this line of conversation, please?” He stood at the door and watched her, bag slung over his shoulder, looking a little lost once more. “Why is this such a big deal?”

“It’s not.” She made herself smile at him, but all the while the sense of angry hurt settled in her stomach in a low, tight, cold knot. All she could figure was that either he was ashamed of her or he still believed they had no real chance together.

She was betting on the latter. Glimpses of the future opened before her. Would she be fighting him all the way, trying to hold on to him as he pulled into himself? That wasn’t the type of relationship she wanted by any means.

One night, Jennifer
. She was one night in. Patience. She simply needed patience to make this work. Sooner or later, he’d see what they could be, believe in what they were together. As always, and even more imperatively now than it had ever been in Jennifer’s life before, failure was not an option.